Freudian WTF

I don’t usually remember my dreams. On occasion I might recall snippets, but more often than not when I am asleep I am dead to the world and whatever is happening in my subconscious stays in my subconscious, well away from any awareness for me. I’m cool with that.

Last night, however (and for whatever reason), I had a very vivid dream that I can recall even now with total clarity. It was real, I was there. All the sights, sounds, smells and tastes. The dust in the corners. All of it.

I share this with you now just because it was weird enough to be a topic of conversation. Also, it is music related.

So in this dream, I was in my house as it is now, looking at my CD collection. The shelves my father and I built, the vinyls in their tidy homes. And I was possessed by a certainty that it was time to go all Walden on my own ass. I knew with certainty that Thoreau was right, that a simple life was the way to go.

So I boxed up everything. All my special editions and boxed sets and all the rest and drove everything in a cube van to Saskatoon. In my dream, this drive only took about 20 minutes. [In reality, it would take days to get there]. I parked on Broadway, threw on the four-ways and lugged everything up the stairs to Stu’s great shop, the Vinyl Diner (hi, Stu!).

Stu went through everything in a matter of minutes and gave me ten thousand dollars. He asked what I was going to do with all that money and I said “I’m getting on a plane.”

Which is what I did, except it was Terminal 3 at Pearson airport in Toronto from which I flew to Rio De Janeiro. How I got from Saskatoon to Toronto instantaneously is a mystery of dreamland, same as my drive to Saskatoon.

Anyway, I took an apartment in Rio with an extremely friendly guy named Franco, and we walked all the way up to the Christ The Redeemer statue on the mountain. Franco owned only Iron Maiden t-shirts.

I am not particularly devout or predisposed to seek these things out. On any given day, I’d tell you there probably is a higher power but I sure as hell don’t know what it is. So why I was drawn to this gigantic symbol of Christianity I have no idea. Make of it what you will, but I don’t think I’m secretly wishing to be a Christian any more than I am secretly wishing to be a pole dancer.

Franco and I hung around at the statue, eating popsicles, and as I looked out over Rio I felt the best I’d ever felt in my life. The breeze in my face, an exciting city at my feet. It felt like home.

And that’s all I remember.

What does it mean? I have no idea. I suppose we could analyse it and say I am (unspokenly) feeling weighed down by possessions, and I seek some sort of spiritual release or connection. Sitting here now I’d say I surely love having my records here, and if I wanted spiritual connection, Christianity would be the easiest to find around here, I wouldn’t need to go to Rio. And why not any of a million other major world religion sites? And why religion at all? And why now? I’m not facing any stressors in my life. I’ve never been much of a follower, so this whole thing was strange.

Also, why in hell would I ditch my collection? I’ve spent years researching, searching and collecting all this stuff. It’s a part of me! And where was my family through all of this? My wife and kids didn’t enter into any of it, which surely they should have. They’d have liked Franco.

So there you go. My brain coughed up a hairball and I’ve shared it with you.

You’re welcome.

Send for the men in the white coats. I’ve always wanted a rubber room…